Chapter 5 Logan
LOGAN
On the second day of load-in at the theater, I start a fire.
The smoke units were running fine at first, but the carpet wasn’t flameproofed and the whole thing turned to ashes.
And yesterday, the numbers that get attached to each set piece, the ones we use to guide us when we’re assembling them, were all mixed up. That was just the beginning of all the unusual things that have been happening—
Thump!
“Not the canoe!” Richie Berrío, the head of Props, groans.
We both run over.
“I got it.” I lift the now-cracked canoe.
It’s not heavy, but it’s the type of weight I’ve missed ever since becoming head carpenter on this production.
Before my title upgrade three months ago, when I was still a production carpenter building sets, I was the one measuring, sawing, hammering, drilling, building, and repairing.
Now my days are filled with managing my crew and keeping them happy, approving payroll, and making sure the theater we’re moving sets into doesn’t fall apart.
Still, I get to work on Broadway and be a small part of making imagined worlds come to life in the most literal way possible. It doesn’t get better than that.
“Glue’s not gonna fix this,” Richie says, irritated.
I set the canoe out of the way. “It’s worth a try.”
Richie grunts. “I had your confidence once. Then you turn sixty and start thinking twice before walking up stairs without rails.”
“Hey. That was my first staircase,” I say, smirking at his reference to the first show we did together seven years ago when I was starting out. Every now and then, I’d pick up jobs helping with load-ins, which is how I met Richie.
“You figure out the set piece numbers yet?” he asks.
“Not yet, but it’s going to be great,” I say with an upbeat attitude. “It’ll be like a puzzle. I love those.”
Putting the sets together takes hours and a lot of coordination. We did not need this hold-up.
Richie barks a laugh. “I’d put it on the team that messed this up. You’re very good at saying yes to things you maybe shouldn’t. Hey, you still in for Fantasy Soccer? I assume so, Mr. Winning Streak.”
“Sure. Yeah. Count me in,” I say.
“You got it. Have fun,” he says, clapping me on the back as he leaves.
“This is no big deal,” I mumble to myself.
I flip through the set of blueprints, cataloging what should be here.
For this show, there’s the log cabin mansion’s suite, the hotel lobby, the main hall for a dance-off, the dock where the two leads kiss, the campfire and log benches, and the canoe for their romantic sunset paddle.
And then there are a variety of drops: stars, sunrises, sunsets, and the lake the resort is built on.
Before I can figure this out, one of my stagehands informs me that some of the mechanical pieces that need to get rolled onstage keep getting caught in the tracks. I take a break from the set pieces to address that issue.
Everything seems to pop up at once, and I lose track of time and send everyone to lunch late. It’s not the smoothest start, but hey, that’s showbiz. I’ll use the next thirty minutes to come up with an action plan. It’s all going to be great.
And then something actually great happens.
This is Hazel. Rain check pizza? the text from an unknown number reads.
I respond right away. I’ll take the pizza, but not the rain.
“You’re soaked. Again,” Hazel says, looking me up and down. “You know, I said ‘rain check pizza’ metaphorically.”
Her cheeks are pink from the cold, her eyes bright. She’s in a gray wool sweater, light jeans that fray at the bottoms, and black combat boots. I can’t believe she’s standing in front of me. I thought I had lost her for good a couple of nights ago.
I raise my hat and push my hair off my forehead. “I’m now convinced that I have my very own storm cloud following me around.”
Hazel nods. “A stranger gave me their umbrella. Odd, right?”
Something odd has been going on, but I don’t know that it has to do with umbrellas.
I open the door to Curtain Call Pizzeria and follow Hazel in as the scent of tomatoes, cheese, and spicy pepperoni welcomes us.
When she texted yesterday, I figured there was no better place than the best pizza shop in all of Manhattan.
What would typically be booths are old theater seats.
The walls are plastered in Broadway posters and Playbills.
Above us, hundreds of props dangle from the ceiling: lamp shades, brooms, signed casts, pies, newspapers, cameras.
“Your usual spot’s taken, Logan, but help yourself to wherever you want,” Suze says to us, adjusting the black vest all the servers wear, as though they’re theater ushers.
“Thanks, Suze,” I say, introducing her and Hazel to each other.
Drake, another regular here, waves to me from his preferred seat at the counter.
He’s doing the crossword puzzle, like always.
As Hazel and I walk to an open table near the window, I say, “I know the location’s touristy, but between the food and the vibes, this place is an underrated gem. ”
I gesture for Hazel to take the seat closest to the window so she can get the best view of the place. Triple-pocket menus made to look like oversize Playbills are waiting for us on the table.
“It’s really nice to see you. I’m happy you texted,” I tell her once we’re settled. “It was because you needed more tie-dye in your life, wasn’t it?”
“Exactly. I ran out of napkins,” she jokes. “In your texts, you said you needed to talk to me about something, and I think I know what it’s about.” She removes the lottery ticket from her bag and sets it on the table. “This is yours.”
“Ohhh, so that’s where it went,” I say, playing coy.
She narrows her eyes. “You shouldn’t have put the ticket in my bag, Logan.”
“How else were you going to experience a little luck?” I ask. “Or get in touch with me?”
The corner of her mouth curves. “I wasn’t planning on getting in touch. And if I hadn’t texted, you would’ve missed out on millions. With that much money, you could, I don’t know, buy a DeLorean and go back in time or get yourself an Ecto-1 and bust ghosts.”
“Well, that would’ve been the biggest loss,” I say. “You not texting.”
This brings back the pink in her cheeks. It’s still just as cute as the day I first met her.
Wordlessly, she slides the ticket toward me. She picks up her menu, her eyes drifting over the offerings. “So, what’s good here? I’m thinking eggplant. These prices aren’t terrible, actually. The BBQ one looks good. A whole dollar more, though? Geez.”
I don’t move on as quickly. I lean closer to her, my forearms crossed on the table, the ticket still where she left it. A cool thirty million casually resting right there between us. “The other day, when you said money like that just brings problems, can I ask what you meant?”
She blows out a breath and looks at me like, isn’t it obvious?
“Besides people wanting something from you, lottery winners have historically had it rough. It typically doesn’t end well.
Within three to five years, almost one-third of winners go bankrupt.
They become targets. Winners struggle with anxiety, guilt, broken relationships, paranoia. ”
“How do you know so much about it?”
“I looked into it after we—” She pauses. “It just sounds like a burden, is all.”
“Yeah. I’ve heard those stories, too,” I say. “Which is why I’m going to follow your lead. I don’t want the money either. Because I get it. Money can bring problems.” I tap the ticket. “I am glad this brought you back into my life, though.”
Hazel drops the menu onto the table. “Wait, hold on. How can you not want the money? You can’t turn down millions of dollars,” she says as though I’ve just told her I don’t believe in the moon.
Suze comes over to take our order. “Three pepperoni slices, as usual?” she asks, pre-empting my order. “Oh, milkshake machine’s down. Sorry.”
“Seriously?” I eye Hazel, whose chest rises and falls in perfect sync with Dean Martin’s “Ain’t That a Kick in the Head” pouring out of the speakers.
“It finally gave out,” Suze says with a shrug. She runs her hand through her silver hair. “Died making a mint cookies and cream.”
“May it rest in pieces,” I mumble.
“Two slices of eggplant, please,” Hazel tells Suze. “Is it possible to do half grapefruit, half orange juice?”
“Actually, yes!” Suze says. “We got a fresh box of grapefruits in a few minutes ago. Haven’t had any in all month.”
When Suze leaves, Hazel places two fingers on the ticket and slides it even closer to me. “Don’t reverse psychology me.”
“I wouldn’t dare. Look, this is how serious I am.” I lift the ticket and am about to rip it in half when Hazel huffs out, “Wait!”
A low whine-groan escapes her throat. “Logan,” she says, squeezing her eyes shut, “I actually… I need this money.”
“You want it? What about all the stuff you just said?” I ask. “You could’ve just led with that, you know.”
Her eyes blink open as she shakes her head. “No, I don’t want it. I need it,” she clarifies. “And I meant everything I said earlier.”
“Okay, well, if you want the money, it’s yours,” I tell her. “I promised you.”
“You don’t have to split it, of course. I don’t even need my entire half—”
“The entire half is yours.”
Somehow, Hazel looks more miserable.
“Thank you,” she says. “I owe you.”
“You don’t owe me anything. If you’re worried about people knowing you’ve come into a fortune, I may have an idea.” I hold a hand in front of my face. “Disguises.”
“Like… we wear masks?” she asks.
“It can’t be that obvious, but I work with the best wig and makeup people in show business. They might be able to help,” I offer. “Our names will still be out there, but I don’t know if we can get around that. New York requires people to disclose their identities.”